


I Wonder as I Wander

by greerwatson



Series: Christmas at the Clubhouse [16]
Category: RENAULT Mary - Works
Genre: Christmas, Gen, ITOWverse, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:17:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mysteriously, a school-aged Ralph turns up belatedly at the clubhouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wonder as I Wander

**Author's Note:**

> This story was posted originally to the [maryrenaultfics](http://maryrenaultfics.livejournal.com) LiveJournal community as a gift to the members for Christmas in 2009.

He came down in the morning in his pyjamas without even a dressing gown; and Mrs Kearsey exclaimed over his bare feet.  No one was sure at first what book he belonged to:  one of the modern novels, obviously; but Mrs Hackett couldn’t remember one that had a boy that age.  Mrs Timmings fried him bacon and egg, and grilled him two slices of toast, while the Secretary left the housekeepers and slipped out to find Bagoas, who was the most familiar with the available clothing.  Young Alexander came down a little later, looking for bread and cheese and a few olives to break his fast; and, despite the difference in age, the two boys sufficiently hit it off to go outside with a bat and a ball.

Names were scarcely mentioned beyond their own, and ‘Alexander’ was common enough:  Ralph did not comment on the other boy’s frock.  He was quite a _little_ boy (thought Ralph, from the loftiness of twelve) and the accent placed him as foreign:  Ralph was sure he should be polite.  He was, after all, a guest here. When in Rome, and all that.

Alexander chatted friendlily away as he trotted along by the older boy.  “You _look_ like someone,” he said.  “Someone I’m sure I met, but I’m not sure when.  There was a boy named Ralph here a couple of days ago: you look a bit like him.  Could he be your cousin or nephew, maybe?  I have a lot of relatives named Alexander like me.”  But Ralph was sure he had no cousin of the same name; and nephews were obviously out of the question.

There was a lovely piece of grass, far enough from the house for the safety of windows.  Towards one side there was a boggy bit where the snow had lain thick in a hollow; but most of the lawn was dry enough.  Alexander was all set for toss-and-catch; but Ralph resolved to play big brother, and show the little foreigner the basics of cricket.

***

Inside the kitchen, there was rather a lot of discussion, most of it centring on the perturbing question of why on earth Ralph had turned up at _this_ stage in his life—so much older than the other children who had visited, yet not at any age he had been seen in his book.  And why had he arrived so long after Christmas Day?  With all its fun and feasting, it would surely have been the obvious time to come:  he would have enjoyed it as much as any of the others, whatever his age.

On the porch, the philosophers were mulling over the same thing.

“There must have been some _reason_ ,” said Plato; “but without interrogating the lad, I doubt if we will ever know—and that’s assuming he knows himself.”

“He’s enjoying himself,” murmured Aristotle.  “Perhaps that is reason enough.”

“Perhaps,” said Sokrates.  “But is it that simple?”

They watched as Ralph described the principles of bowling, and Alexander swung the bat.  His eye was naturally keen and, after a few strokes, willow connected with leather.  Ralph made a mighty leap and caught it, his hand scarcely stinging from the slow ball.

“He is not a young child,” observed Sokrates.  The others looked at him oddly.  It seemed too obvious to need stating:  Ralph was clearly on the cusp of youth, especially to the eyes of an ancient Greek.  Coming from Sokrates, though, the statement surely had more significance.

***

“Would you like to see the horses?” Alexander offered.  With no others to make it a proper game, cricket was beginning to pall.  The boys dropped off the bat and ball inside the house, clamouring for carrots.  They headed down the path to the stables, but found themselves looking in at empty stalls.

“I think my father must be exercising Oxhead,” said Alexander, with only slight disappointment:  it was not, after all, that surprising.  “But we can look at the mares,” he offered.  “Xenophon says I can pick one of the foals when they’re born.  To have for myself, I mean,” he added.  “Well, at least for when I’m here.”

“Xenophon?” Ralph was taken aback.  It was hardly an _ordinary_ name.

“Alexias’s friend?”  Alexander was not sure just how much the other boy knew.  “You know, from _their_ book, I mean.  Not my book.”  He paused.  “Not _your_ book, either, I’m sure.”  A thoughtful look at Ralph’s clothes and the memory of the pyjamas caused him to add, “Are you from the same book as Laurie, maybe?”

 _Book?_ It was all Greek to Ralph.

***

“You see,” expounded Sokrates, “we have already experienced our books; or are within the time of our book but having experienced at least a portion of the book.  The boy’s role in _his_ book is yet to come.  What inferences can we draw from this?”

“He may not know he is a character,” offered Plato.

“He may learn _here_ that he is a character,” added Phaedo.

“But how,” asked Alexias, “will such knowledge affect him?  I mean, if _I_ had known....”  He stopped, thinking of words not spoken, deeds not done.

“If I had known,” murmured Lysis.

“If _he_ now knows,” said Aristotle thoughtfully.  “If Alexander tells him....”

“What will happen?” asked Sokrates, to prompt deeper conjecture.

“Ah!  How will it affect his book?” said Plato.  “A good question.”

“What of his friendship with Laurie?” asked Alexias, in sudden concern.

“Yes, at school,” added Lysis.  “Or during the war.  Will he behave differently?”

The two, who had been rather intrigued by the differences between their own lives and those of the modern lovers, mulled over in some detail the potential for trouble on the bookshelf.  Phaedo listened, but added little:  personal history might be affected, he thought; but the larger view would, perforce, remain unaltered.

Plato looked thoughtfully at Sokrates, considering his silence.  More, he suspected, was still to be made of this argument.  “Of course, Laurie has also visited us here for the holiday,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but we saw the little boy of Chapter One,” protested Alexias.  “Merely ... what?  Four or five?  Who among us remembers much of what happened when we were that age?”

There were nods:  it was a fair comment, and applied equally to Charis and the other children who were mid book.  They would all remember a wonderful party, but recall few details.

In the distance, down by the paddock, the difference in height between the boys was obvious.  “He looks about twelve,” said Alexias.  “I have no difficulty remembering myself at that age.”

“Nor I,” murmured Phaedo.  “The details are still clear, despite all that I have lived since.”

***

Carrots were being fed to a small herd of sleek, well-rounded mares, who snuffled up the vegetables and let their noses be stroked.  Ralph had not pursued the matter of books; but he was thinking very hard about the frock that Alexander wore.  And Xenophon.  And horses.

“Is this Xenophon the man who wrote the book about horses?” he asked.

“’Course,” said Alexander. “And other things, too.  My father reads them.”

 _And who’s your father?_ Ralph wanted to ask.  But he held his tongue, a little afraid of the answer.   _“I think my father must be exercising Oxhead.”_  He was still on early lessons in his Greek; but he’d read enough history to know who Oxhead’s rider had to be.

 _Where was he?_ When _was he?_

Through the woods, a black horse came trotting with a rider on his back, heading for the stable.  The horse had no saddle; and, under his cloak, the rider also wore a ... tunic.   _Χιτων._  Ralph’s eyes were drawn to the glint of gold, as the sun shone on the man’s hair.

Back in the kitchen, Mrs Timmings was scrubbing potatoes.  “I wouldn’t worry,” she said, when the other women had voiced their own concerns.  “Judging by the clothes he came in, the lad’s straight from bed. Which is where he’ll be when he goes back.

Come morning, it’ll all be just a dream.”


End file.
